Sure. There are at least two Sherlock Holmes stories, two episodes of Doctor Who, and “Whatever Happened to the Caped Crusader?” that I’d count as fan fiction… Although I’m not sure if it still counts when they pay you for it.
1. A Day In The Life of Jordan Asher
3. Howl/Your Move
4. Fade Away
6. No More [ft. Shlohmo & Jeremih]
7. Autumn (Lude I) [ft. Kelela]
9. Sheep / Lookin’ Muthafucka (Lude II)
10. Troubled World [ft. Son Lux]
11. Olive Trees And Blue Skies And Hills
12. My Heart Is A Stone Today (Unharmed)
14. Ride By (Lude III) [ft. Margot]
15. Ride Ride Ride
16. Dreams [ft. Beyoncé]
or I literally cannot sit shotgun anywhere anymore
Cause after years of being being trucked around as the plus one, you finally get to call the shots. This may or may not qualify as intrusive but so was coming to my high school in disguise and somehow that resonates as an adorable memory. Is it possible that this is the only way we know how to show affection?
The distance— by all definitions— is pure criminal, but 99% of my configuration is made up of the jokes you told me when I was sixteen.
I leave you with the most important thing you taught me: flashing someone is not love, just a nice gesture.
“She said nothing, and Sir Andrew too was silent, yet those two young people understood one another, as young people have a way of doing all the world over and have done since the world began.”—or, “Oh shoot, it’s the first #pbof ever!”
“Among the producers of “Holler if Ya Hear Me” is Afeni Shakur, Tupac Shakur’s mother; Eric L. Gold, a television producer (“The Wayans Bros.”); and Shin Chun-soo, a prominent theater producer in South Korea.”—The NY Times on “Holler if Ya Hear Me,” a new musical inspired by the works of Tupac Shakur.
I told you I wasn’t coming home for Christmas and you had a ticket booked for New York within a week. I don’t get it. HOW WERE WE NOT MARRIED LIKE, TEN YEARS AGO??? Well……..you have a very strict no-tswift policy and something about my stomach and your height…
In the wake of the worst everythings ever, I imagine you’ll roll in on a donkey with people laying out palms branches leading up to my doorstep. You will probably cry. This is the closest we’ll ever get to that communal LA dream house that, if the five of us were to ever get into the same school, would’ve still never happened. So if we screw this up I will never forgive us. I’m going to complain like I hate life more than I actually do and if it’s anything below fifty, you’re going to have to drag me outside kicking and screaming but know for the next two weeks, there is really, really no other place I would rather be. Time to go to bed and not wake up for the next two days so I can be as perky and you’ll be, come 6AM, cause you’re strange like that. Don’t forget the shoes.
“Last night I went to bed at 1:30 and got up this morning at 9:15, just enough time to get to Terry Gross at NPR. I love Terry Gross to death. One of my favorite journalism moments is her versus Gene Simmons. He’s trying to do his usual shock shtick and she hung in there like a champ. It was Muhammad Ali against George Foreman, Rumble in the Jungle. He was arrogant and tried to bully her and she would stick him and lunge and move away. I don’t mess with Terry Gross.”— Questlove in an interview with Paper Magazine (via wbezmusic)
Hoping that not nearly as many people fall in love with you this time around. Things get complicated when you’re gone and it’s harder for me to convince everyone that I’m the bigger deal. In any case, I realize that you have quite the fan base here so can you tell NO BODY that you’re coming cause I hate sharing but I hate being second best even more (except I already told everyone cause I got too excited). I forget that you’re not coming here forever but the anticipation sure feels like it, like it does every time and I’ll go into my thirty days of mourning when you leave, like I do every time.
We always make a fuss about not actually sharing blood (although we do share a very erratic B-ness) but imagine how creepy this would be if we actually did. I mean, this is still pretty creepy but it could always be creepier. Also, if we were of the same womb, we’d have to give up either your mom’s cooking or my mom’s clothes and that is a negotiation I am not willing to participate in.
It’s ironic because this name owes itself entirely to one of our last jokes together. We had just eaten dinner together after one of our useless late-night classes and were walking over to my place to read the New York Times cause those were precisely the type of evening activities we did then. The formerly esoteric, long coveted list of things only I knew — your spirit and humor, confidences and doubts, your different faces and their meanings— is now undoubtedly abridged since the days of your punctual post-party visits and weird inkling towards Chinese documentaries. And so I hated that over time I had to share you with the rest of the world but I’ll still selfishly hold onto those first budding sweet moments that still remain solely to me and maybe they will mean something someday. I have twice tried to refill your company and have twice failed precisely because of that awful weakness that you and I share in one version or another. In the midst of everyone finally beginning to realize how completely extraordinary you are, I almost forgot how indispensably important you were and are to me.
In the wake of this awful cold weather, accidentally sending you my resume (which was terrifying, cause you’re going to cure cancer and I’m not) was the best decision ever made in the history of awful cold weather. September was such a treat, October was a dream, and November is going to be better. Here’s to another month of biased memories and making up stories that never happened!